Germs for Breakfast

A crawling baby is cuter than a puppy kissing a kitten. When Stinker crawls, I love the way his tiny hands slap the ground as he scoots his knees across the tile. Every few seconds, he sits up, scans the sights, then ventures off for five more feet. It makes me smile even before my morning coffee … as long as I don't think about the floor. Each time his hand smacks the ground, it's a high five to millions of microscopic monsters.

If adults crawled on the floor, we'd be a bunch of whiners, complaining about sore knees and the indignity of it all. But the first thing we'd do after getting up and cracking our backs? Sprint to the sink and scrub our hands like a surgeon.

Babies, however, love germs. Their hands enter their mouths the first chance they get, whether to gnaw on piggies and suck off grime, or insert dead carpenter ants using their exciting new pincer grasp. Babies hands are on the floor constantly—just like our dirty shoes. We may as well give them Clarks to chew on.

It's all pretty nasty, and that's from someone who's far from a germaphobe. Proof: Once as a teenager, I bought ice cream at the boardwalk. As I headed back toward the beach, my perfect round scoop flew off the cone and toppled to the ground. Splat! I swung down for the ice cream quicker than Serena Williams swats a tennis ball, placing it back on its throne. Then I licked furiously, eyes down (afraid of gasps and evil stares), until it was gone.

More proof: I was once told I treated Boss like a second child for violating the new-mom germ code. I forget my crime, but it probably involved a fallen binky, swipe on the pants and plugging the paci back in his pie hole.

More recently, we were grocery shopping, humming along in the race car cart that steers like a Zamboni, when out flew Boss's lollipop. That lollipop is my ticket to 15 minutes of peaceful shopping; no one messes with the lollipop. I picked it up, checked for witnesses, then passed it back to Boss, feeling only a twinge of guilt. Some goddess invented the five-second rule, and whoever you are, I love you for it. (And before you judge me too harshly, I did wipe the race car and basket seat with a germ-zapping towelette before we started shopping. So, five points for me there.)

I realize I'm hypocritical about germs. Yes, I open doors with my shirt sleeve, but share spoons and sometimes a toothbrush. I have antibacterial lotion in my car, in the diaper bag and next to the sink, but I let Boss play with street gravel. I'm plagued by dreams about dirty toilet stalls, but I don't rinse home-grown herbs before using them.

Whatever the case, it's probably a matter of split-second prioritizing with me and germs. Sometimes “Eh!” wins; sometimes “Whoa!” does. I do know one thing, though: My immune system rocks. I could suck on pocket change and not get sick. I'm sure genetics plays a part, as does luck. But the secret ingredient? A few immunity-building germs for breakfast.

I hear the floor serves up some tasty bites.